Some Poems

The Pretext of Darknesss

Under my solitary lamp

A poem pulls at the periphery of thought,

Begging to be birthed.

I own the night—or am I the owned?

I am wearied by obligatory tasks;

The ‘I shoulds’ of a silent night.

Perhaps I should greet silence

With Silence.

Or converse with the unseen Divine.

The night owns me.

The Ruler of the Night trumps the uninvited Pretender

Who claims rights as well.

My mind is a stranger to poetry,

Having left it in some furrow along my path

Does it spring up? Like the Sower’s seed?

“Take care, friend, that the seed you sow

Is not met by tangles of human frailty,

Dark imaginings,

Or pain"

Take care that the mockery or censure of spirits

Does not snatch the seed as it falls, like hungry ravens

Quoting ‘nevermore.’

Wait, rather, for the soft whisper

The familiar ineffable, wholly “Other”

Who waits quietly

To have His say; To stake his claim

To the darkness of this ceaseless night.

When you are owned by the Light

Dark paths matter not….

When the traveler of the spheres

Holds one’s hand, Darkness flees

Though the night be prolonged.

So, hope yet in the dawn,

And permit the poem to be spawned.

Here in the small circle of lamplight

A chronicle of Life in the pretext of Death.

Cynthia Lott Vogel

1-20-15

All Rights Reserved

Vicki 

7-23-13

All rights reserved

Ahh my friend...we shall sit down to tea--

you and me.

It's your favorite blend

Perfect for a broken heart

Perhaps it will mend

Mine.

The loss that will not go away.

 I'm the one to stay

My chats go out into the dark of space

Unrequited.

I think of where you lie

In the warm loam--

I'll drink my tea alone

How can one love so completely,--

When it is only the tapping of keys

That united our hearts?

No one has ever mourned my pain

The way you did

Those tears are diamonds to me now

And maybe the diamonds in your crown.

The Stillbirth 

CLV 5-12-15

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Poetry eludes me

Words confuse me.

I get lost in their corridors –

-- turning corners

One after the other

Forgetting from whence I have come

And to where I am going.

I find a beautiful one, like a gem on the beach:

Rolled til satin–smooth,

Bounced about my mind til commonplace
I tasted it on my tongue

Soft, slow, sweet--

Fragrant-- like dried lavender.                     

I must use it.

But oh!! It is gone!!

Riding the gray waves of what matters.

Slipped through a crevice and leapt back to the surf

From whence it had come.

I am bereft; the poem: stillborn.